


i feel the pressure blowing up

by arpeggioschuyler



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Angst, OoOOOoOoOOoOH, Panic Attacks, Rated teen for swearing, yet another goddamn michael in the bathroom fic but do i care ?? no lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 23:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11301450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arpeggioschuyler/pseuds/arpeggioschuyler
Summary: He stares at his reflection as he shakes, wondering how the fuck he ended up like this— how the fuck he ended up completely and utterly alone, no one by his side, how he ended up as fucking Michael in the bathroom at the party all by himself— and his body gives out. He falls to his knees and rests his head against the sink, sobbing. He can't even think coherently, just sob as he realizes he is alone for the first time in twelve goddamn years.He pulls himself shakily to his feet as he considers what he's done the entire time he's been in the bathroom. God, is he pathetic. He laughs shakily as he paces around the bathroom, wishing he'd stayed at home in bed on this heinous night. Maybe he should have just done something Jeremy would have done, stayed at home in bed watching cable porn. Maybe he should have done that, or anything else— he wishes he'd gotten high in his basement or beaten level 11 of single-player Apocalypse of the Damned or done fucking anything but come to this god-awful party— and his brain supplies him with a thought that he'd been trying to suppress this whole night, a thought that went along the lines of "I wish I'd fucking offed myself instead."





	i feel the pressure blowing up

**Author's Note:**

> hshjsjsj so this is a thing...
> 
> basically, michael in the bathroom. at a party. just a lotta fucking angst. have fun.

"Get out of my way, loser."

The words echo in Michael's head as he locks the door behind Jeremy. He turns his back to it (like Jeremy turned his back on him, his mind supplies helpfully), and tries to figure out what Jenna Rolan is screeching this time as she knocks on the door.

"Hello! Other people have to pee!"

Michael doesn't want to leave. This is a safe place, a place where Jeremy isn't, a place for him to breathe— he knows he won't be able to manage if he steps into the sweltering heat and the blaring music of the party. So he pitches his voice the highest it can go and prays it doesn't crack as he responds to Jenna with, "I'm having my period." 

Jenna makes a noise of sympathy from behind the door. "Take your time, honey," she says, and Michael knows damn well he will. It's not like anyone will notice or care if he stays here or if he just vanishes into thin air. It's not like anyone cares that he's freaking out in the bathroom, people will only care if they have to pee. 

Besides, being a creepy loner in the bathroom is better than standing awkwardly surrounded by popular kids pounding drinks back and singing horribly off-key to whatever new hit song is playing. At least, that's what he tries to convince himself. It has to better than pretending to check a text on his phone that hasn't had any notifications since Jeremy swallowed that goddamn supercomputer. 

Everything had always been better with Jeremy by his side. He could have survived high school with Player Two, but now his Player Two has disconnected and it feels like game over. Now Player One is standing in Jake Dillinger's bathroom at the biggest fucking party of the year like the fucking weirdo he is.

Michael zones back in to where he is and looks around for probably the hundredth time at the bathtub and the toilet and the sink, lamenting his pathetic life. He doesn't even know how long it's been since he told Jenna he was on his period— fuck, he doesn't even know how long it's been since he was Michael in the bathroom by himself, because every other time it was Michael and Jeremy in the bathroom together as Michael's lungs constricted and Jeremy held his hand and helped snap him out of it. 

A knock on the door. Someone says something. He doesn't hear it entirely, but just shouts "You can't come in!" and the knocking stops. He sits on the floor, leaning against the bathtub, officially deeming the bathroom his until he feels up to stumbling through the party to get out of there. 

He looks around the bathroom again, and then looks at himself, and sees his sweater sleeve pushed up and fingernail marks on his arm. Dammit. How long has he been doing that? He doesn't feel like making himself bleed, he's not doing that bad right now— or at least he tries to convince himself he's not, but his best friend of twelve goddamn years has abandoned him, so how well can he really be doing? 

He settles for picking at grout instead as he stares at the door. Jeremy is out there, Michael knows that— probably hooking up with Brooke or trying to pick up Christine or doing shots with Jake. Either way, he's out there not thinking about Michael. His Squip is off and he's forgetting all about Michael, his best friend of twelve years.

For a second, Michael considers the possibility of going back to Payless and blowing all his camp counsellor money on a Squip. Maybe if he was a cooler version of himself, Jeremy would still be hanging out with him. But unlike Jeremy, Michael has standards— and even being rude towards Jeremy in his head makes him feel like he's betraying his only friend, even if Jeremy isn't his friend anymore. 

There's a drunk girl right outside the bathroom door, singing horrendously to Whitney— "I wanna dance with somebody!" Michael snorts and mouths along dramatically with her and then pauses, a sick feeling sinking in his gut, remembering all the times Jeremy and he would scroll through social media on the night of parties like these and mock all the drunk girls on their feed for as long as the content kept coming. But now it's just him, just Michael in the goddamn bathroom who's not nearly as drunk as the girl outside but is probably drunk enough to sing along to Whitney mockingly with her. 

He can feel tears dripping down his face and he wipes them away with a shaky hand, discovering a new reason to stay in the bathroom for longer. He can't go out there crying, he'll have to wait as long as it takes for his face to dry. The logical part of his brain points out towels or toilet paper, but he's done thinking logically. If anything, he could blame his tears on something in his eye— something in both eyes— no, better yet, weed. Everybody at this school thinks he's a goddamn stoner anyways, might as well use that to his advantage, right? Jenna Rolan had spread the rumour sophomore year when the school's resident drug dealer had asked him for the notes she'd missed in science class. It has snowballed from there until Michael wasn't just one of those two probably gay outcasts, he was the stoner of the two probably gay outcasts. But now it was just him, the constantly high, probably gay loner without a best friend because his best friend up and fucking abandoned him like he was nothing and—

There's a knock on the door. Three more knocks. Fuck! Michael can feel his breathing become more raggedy as his brain starts to supply him with what will happen next. They're going to start to shout soon— fuck, they're already saying something, he tries to focus but hears nothing discernible. 

"I'll be out soon!" He calls out, voice cracking and shaking, wishing that he hadn't been left in this goddamn bathroom on his own. The knocking continues— maybe they didn't hear him, maybe they just really have to take a piss, but either way the frantic knocking syncs with Michael's rapid heartbeat. The person starts to try the handle of the door and his brain races to figure out if he locked it as the pressure builds up in his chest to the point where he feels like he's gonna explode. The person starts banging on the door and Michael stumbles over to the sink, turns on the cold water frantically, and splashes water in his face. 

The cold water shocks him out of his spiral and he gasps for air as the water drips down his face and pool under his chin. He moves to go open up the door, but there's no more knocking. It makes him wonder if there ever was knocking. He's been left alone again.

 If this had been any other time— if it hadn't been just Michael in the bathroom, if Jeremy had been by his side, it wouldn't've gotten this bad. But that time is gone and Michael brings his head up as he braces himself tensely on the sink counter. 

He looks in the mirror and sees a mess staring back at him. His hair is half frizzy and half soaked, his glasses are splotchy with tears and water, he's shaking so much, and his eyes are red. Damn, he could blame this whole thing on weed. He stares at his reflection as he shakes, wondering how the fuck he ended up like this— how the fuck he ended up completely and utterly alone, no one by his side, how he ended up as fucking Michael in the bathroom at the party all by himself— and his body gives out. He falls to his knees and rests his head against the sink, sobbing. He can't even think coherently, just sob as he realizes he is alone for the first time in twelve goddamn years. 

He pulls himself shakily to his feet as he considers what he's done the entire time he's been in the bathroom. God, is he pathetic. He laughs shakily as he paces around the bathroom, wishing he'd stayed at home in bed on this heinous night. Maybe he should have just done something Jeremy would have done, stayed at home in bed watching cable porn. Maybe he should have done that, or anything else— he wishes he'd gotten high in his basement or beaten level 11 of single-player Apocalypse of the Damned or done fucking anything but come to this god-awful party— and his brain supplies him with a thought that he'd been trying to suppress this whole night, a thought that went along the lines of "I wish I'd fucking offed myself instead." Wouldn't everyone's lives be easier if he'd never been born at all? His parents wouldn't have to deal with him being an anti-social weirdo, Jeremy wouldn't have to deal with having him as a friend— because god, who would want him as a friend? He's just Michael the outcast who's now officially friendless and alone, which means he definitely has to be the token stoner of the school. Michael who drives a fucking trash PT Cruiser to school because he can't afford a goddamn convertible like Chloe Valentine can, but it doesn't matter what he can and can't afford, it just matters that he's a fucking loser, and that's all he'll ever be. He's just Michael in the bathroom at a party all by himself, and the reason why doesn't matter— if anyone finds out about this, they'll go to Jenna Rolan who will make up a story about how he told Jeremy about his big gay crush on him, or how he got caught high by his parents and snuck into Jake's party. Either way, whatever story people will tell won't be true because no one will bother to ask him for the real goddamn reason. Either way, he's just Michael Mell all by himself.

He wipes at the tears under his eyes and pulls his sweater sleeves down as he prepares to open up the door and dash the hell home. He clears his throat, trying to see if he can talk normally in case someone starts to yell at him for taking so long in the bathroom. "Awesome party," he chokes out, and clears his throats again. "I'm so fucking glad I came."

He unlocks the bathroom door and opens it, making his way out. Madeline Roux is standing outside it, dressed as a slutty mime. "Mon Dieu, took you long enough!" She says, pushing her way by him.

He keeps his head down and makes his way through the party, avoiding eye contact at all. Jeremy is sitting on the couch with Christine, and they're smiling at each other and talking. Michael fights back the tears and the bitterness that are trying to join him again and pushes past Rich, who's screaming something about Mountain Dew Red. Probably a weird fucking Squip thing. Probably how Jeremy will end up. 

Michael gets outside and hops in his PT Cruiser. Mountain Dew Red. Rich wasn't acting chill. Maybe, he thinks, maybe that's how you stop it. 

Michael shoots off a quick text to his hook-up at Spencer's Gifts and starts driving, damning his goddamn loyalty to the asshole that betrayed him. 

**Author's Note:**

> wowza lmao thank u for reading! first time ive written fic in ages, first time ive written smth other than songs/screenplays/plays in a gazillion years. i h8 how this musical sucked me in so much that i wrote this lmao but it only took me like a half hour at most i think?? whatevs
> 
> gimme kudos if u liked it, or not if u don't wanna, i rly don't care, have a good day


End file.
